So You Want a Revolution?
by camillavirgil
Summary: The Old Ones are dead. There's chaos in the vampire world. Hal's tied to a chair. And a group of werewolves think it's about time they went from being underdogs to top dogs. Set during and after the end of series 4. Now AU - but with some character background details borrowed from series 5. Hal, Tom, Alex, and a host of OC. Possible Alex/OC romance.
1. Chapter 1 - Full Moon

Ok – posting this story. A word of warning – our current trio does not make an immediate appearance in this story (sorry). They should make an appearance sometime soon though, lol. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy my characters and the references to the show!

Look forward to hearing what you think. :)

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Chapter One

It was the night of the dogfights that night and Lindsey, true to form, was already screaming her head off. "Jesus, I swear that girl turns early," muttered Rob, leaning against the side of the makeshift cage. Bryn sat calmly in the corner, her long legs tucked under her in lotus position. Her hands, however, were slightly clenched.

She felt the first grips of the change coming. The gripping pain that latched onto her bones. But she remained stoically clam, concentrating deep within herself, turning her mind inwards.

Everyone wondered how she did it—the werewolf who never screamed. Concentration, focused attention: that was it. And years and years of practice—and the legacy of it.

The pain reared up again, stronger. She felt the beginning of claws prick the skin of her thumbs. Bryn closed her eyes. Next came the lengthening of the snout. From the main ring, Lindsey's cries had reached fever pitch. Any second and she'd shut up, her body closing down over the agony. Throat, gullet, and vocal cords tearing and reforming and the pituitary gland failing to provide blessed relief, as usual—yes, Lindsey would still feel the pain. But at least she'd feel it in silence, or until her howls kicked in.

"Ready?" Asked Rob, though it wasn't really a question. He was good at his job—he knew when they were about to snap, to transform. He knew how she liked to go into the pen: as human as possible. It put on a good show. They just ate it up.

Bryn rose in response. She'd waited a bit too long this time—if she wasn't careful she'd break down on the entry and then where would they be? The old Soviet munitions dump was filled to overflowing. They'd been promised Bryn and they wanted to see her.

_'I've retired from the ring.' She'd told Rob. 'I don't fight anymore; I don't tour.'_

_ 'This Lycurious thing has me thinking though.' Rob had said. 'What's up with that? And the transformation video…'_

_ "Phenomenally stupid.' She'd cut in._

_ 'Someone's out to get you guys.' Rob carried on over her._

_ 'Something's always after our kind.' Had been Bryn's snorting reply. She was used to it._

_ 'Could you ask?'_

_ 'No.' Too abruptly. She felt bad. 'Anyway, last I heard he was headed to South America.' Rob sighed, acknowledging the improbability of it all reluctantly._

_ He'd dropped the subject, but not for long. Two days later he was back in the gym office, complaining again. 'I don't like the look of it.' He frowned. 'Have you seen them? And the name: Silver Bullet.'_

_ 'Distinct death threat tone, I know. So are you canceling the Eastern European tour?'_

_ 'No.'_

_ 'You want to ask questions.' Said Bryn, eyeing Rob narrowly._

_ 'Have you ever been to Wales?' Asked Rob, intent on deflecting her._

_ That was unexpected. But she let him get away with the subject change. When Rob had his mind set on something, nothing deterred him. So she answered him. 'No. England yes, Wales no. Why?' _

_ ' 'Cause Gabe thinks that's where these are coming from. All these references to Barry.'_

So here they were—the whole pack of them. Six werewolves, seven handlers, Ukraine. And she had to go on. Tim had been injured in practice last week and no one trusted Lindsey to play it easy for him. Bryn had more than half a mind that Rob had something to do with Tim's withdrawal; he probably wanted to make a big statement. And she was definitely that.

She walked out proudly into the lights. They roared, screaming for her, screaming at her. Lindsey was in the final stages of her transformation. Aside from a slight lengthening of her jaw and nose and the claws Bryn was nearly perfectly human.

Oh they liked a spectacle. So she shrugged off the black silk boxing jacket—embroidered, naturally, with wolves heads that looked like flames. That was a mistake. She could feel the bumps forming up her spine, forcing her to raise her shoulders and brace herself against the pain with gritted teeth. Teeth that felt—that were—increasingly canine. But she mastered herself and stepped forward, all the way into the arena. Rob closed the door behind her with a clang.

She faced Lindsey calmly, even though every fiber of her was aching to explode and to become the wolf. Lindsey finished her transformation and stood up with a howl, eying the relatively unchanged form of Bryn warily.

The crowd also howled, wanting a show. "Lassie! Lassie!" Some cried, while others yelled "Bryn!" or perhaps "Brynhild!"

But Bryn didn't even hear them. She was in her own world, focused completely on her body, eking the last tired strands of humanity from it. Her eyes glazed, as if in a trance and her hands clenched—she could feel the hair on her palms coming in follicle by follicle.

The small werewolf gave a twisting lunge, soaring through the air towards the still, tall figure. The spectators drew breath—was it all finally over?

Bryn exploded into a ball of fur and fang.


	2. Chapter 2 - The Morning After

Well, it was a full moon last night over here in California (or almost a full moon, ok, it _looked_ like a full moon). And so today, the day after a full moon seemed like a perfect day to post this chapter on.

It's the aftermath of the fight - and how are are our werewolves doing?

As usual, Being Human does not belong to me. Neither does VitaminWater (and nor is any endorsement of that product intended).

Many thanks to all who have read this, and especially to MancVamp, Ruby Rosetta Red, Team Honolulu Heights, and SAINT for the reviews! They are much appreciated! :)

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"That's a fucked up trick." Snarled Lindsey.

The others ignored her, which only increased Lindsey's bad mood. She knew what they were thinking: 'Oh look, it's Linds, bitching on again. Like she always does after losing a match.' Sure enough, her lingering wolf senses caught Ryan muttering under his breath—"Grow up."

"Fucking hell Ryan!" She raged, leaping and grabbing the cage bars, pressing herself against them. Transfers were hell, but afterwards she generally felt complete. She was invincible in those moments—the ideal mix of human and animal. It was like the two sides of her had merged into the perfect, unbeatable being—evolution at its best. But not today.

Today, she had come out of the transformation the loser of the match; Bryn had beaten her—thrashed her. Oh she'd started off well enough, that initial lunge through the air, the tackle to the ground, the rolling and snapping. For a brief moment, she'd even believed she'd pinned her opponent. But then Bryn had flipped her and after that it had gone downhill—Bryn allowing Lindsey to land blows for show. It didn't look like show—Bryn was too good to make the fight look staged—but Lindsey knew. After that flip, Bryn had been toying with her.

Tim laughed softly. " I heard you bit her." He pointed out.

"For shit?" muttered Ryan.

"For god's sake I can still hear you, dumb-ass!" Lindsey yelled before slumping to the floor in a huff as Liam herded the offending Ryan away with a smiling "Come on, man."

Rob wandered in—probably drawn by the noise she'd been making—and glanced over those assembled, taking stock. The werewolves were still in their cages—tempers were apt to run high after transfers and so for everyone's sanity the pack stayed separated. It was the price they paid for doing their job—when you fought each other on a regular basis in wolf form; you were apt to get snappish. And some of them tread a finer line between friendly sparing and rip-your-head-off death matches then others. Lindsey knew which category she was filed under—the later.

"Put some clothes on." Rob sighed to Lindsey, because Rob cared about that sort of thing. The werewolves—they were used to it. You came out of a transfer naked—fact of life. Everybody was used to it; you had to be to run with the pack. But Rob, bastion of standards, liked to see everyone back to being normal, to being human. "We are _not _a nudist colony." He was fond of reminding Lindsey and Tio.

Lindsey rolled her eyes at Rob's back and reached through the bars for the pile of clothes Jamal had laid out for her: yoga capris, athletic tank-top, zip-up hoodie, her favorite red underwear. He'd also gotten her XXX VitaminWater and energy bars—as he knew she'd like. After the energy bars, she felt slightly less irritable.

"Tylenol?" offered Jamal.

Lindsey nodded and snatched the proffered painkillers brusquely. She didn't trust herself to speak. She felt like shit and her body was a ball of aching, battered muscle. She was liable to snap someone's head off.

"I'm making omelets." Jamal said. "Anything you want on yours?" He teased gently. It was an old, tired joke—but it normally elicited eye rolls and a ghost of a smile from Lindsey. But not this morning.

"No meat." Grumbled Lindsey, still sulky.

She wouldn't rise to Jamal's mockery—she wouldn't. Jamal was her partner, responsible for looking after her. Just as Ryan knew that Tio would inevitably tear his sleeping bag to shreds in gleeful, puppy-like joy during a transformation, Jamal knew that Lindsey was a vegetarian. She felt the judgment; he wanted to tell her to lighten up. But he didn't say anything, probably because he didn't want to risk exasperating her further—provoking another outbreak of rage.

"All right then. He sighed, and looked apologetic. "I'll see what I can do in the way of vegetables—though this is Eastern Europe. Don't get your hopes up. You can't have everything." Jamal finished meaningfully.

Lindsey ignored the hint. "Fuck it." She muttered and drew her legs up to her chin as Jamal walked off, shaking his head.


	3. Chapter 3 - California Dreams

**So here's the next chapter, which takes in Los Angeles and introduces yet more characters! I know, I know - I have a great tendency towards numerous characters. But I hope you find them enjoyable, or at least interesting.**

** Being Human, Carl's Junior (an American hamburger chain), Drai's (a fancy Los Angeles club, or an LA club I presume is fancy because the person I know who went there was quite well-to-do), and any other products I may have referenced) do not belong to me.**

**Many thanks to SAINT, Ruby Rosetta Red, and Non-Canonical for their reviews and to all my readers.**

******As always, please let me know what you think. :)**

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~Chapter 3

The preliminary task of flower selection out of the way, Pat leaned on the counter nonchalantly and admired the view. The florist had one hell of an ass.

"So," He said, taking a brief moment to admire the swell of his biceps, flexing them a bit before going on, "what's a girl like you doing in a place like this?"

The florist tossed her beautiful red hair (undoubtedly dyed—but what a masterful dye job it was) and looked at him coyly. "Working—but not much longer. I just put in my two weeks."

"Congratulations." Smiled Pat, eyeing the dimly lit hole-in-the-wall store distastefully. Most of the floral arrangements appeared to be funeral wreaths and there was a superabundance of lilies. The whole store was dark and cave-like: seedy. "Bet you'll be glad to go. Got a new job?"

She turned around to face him, leaning back against the back wall. "You're looking at the newest cast member of _The Vampire Diaries_." She said.

"Wow." Nodded Pat. So she was an actress, not a model after all. She'd make a terrific vampire—that translucent skin was certainly mouth watering. "What's the part?"

She named it. Some of the confidence went out of her—it was only a small part. "Hey—it sounds great." Pat encouraged. "The biggest part I've had so far was in a Carl's Junior commercial. I ate a hamburger in the background." He played with his aviators, feigning bashfulness.

The story had the desired effect. "Oh my god! You're an actor too!" She said, following this pronouncement with an "Awww" and a giggle and then a smile and declaration that "Auditions were fucked up"—but she was sure he'd be successful. Things were going swimmingly. They'd talk acting, living in LA, swap some casting horror stories, he'd slip in an invite to _Drai's_ casually—"so we should totally celebrate your part, listen—I'm friends with a guy at the _Drai's_ and I can totally get you in. Wanna come? It'll be fun, just a chill night, clubbing." His master plan was flawless—until the shop doorbell tinkled.

"What's taking so long Patrick?" grinned Walter, shuffling sideways through the door and narrowly avoiding a wreath of yellow roses.

Pat automatically tensed up; his clinically insane boss was back. He didn't have to see him to know what he was doing: barging in again with that oily smile, sweat already dripping off of him though the Lincoln town car was idling across the street. He flinched—Walter wouldn't be happy. The actress florist saw him cower and wrinkled her nose; he'd just taken a dive in her estimation.

"Crazy boss." Pat mouthed, hoping to earn some sympathy points. The girl furrowed her eyebrows, momentarily suspending judgment.

As carelessly as he could, Pat swung around to face his boss, resting on his elbows on the counter, head thrown back. "We were just going over the shipping details, Walter." He said running his hand through his perfectly gelled blond hair.

Walter sniffed. "I'll be the judge of that." He said, pulling off the huge sunglasses that looked like they belonged to a blind person. Without the glasses, Walter looked like he'd stepped out of a B movie about mobsters; it hurt Patrick, who was in khaki shorts, and crisp white v-neck t-shirt.

Walter sauntered up to the counter and turned the order book around. "Orchids for the funeral—sorry, cremation. Good, good." His tone changed. "Summer of Love bouquet?" He scoffed. "It may just be for a bitch, but really?"

"Excuse me!" said florist-actress in tones of outrage.

"What _is_ with the feminists these days?" sighed Walter. "And you," He said to Pat, eyeing him narrowly. "Have you no taste? I shudder to think of what you'd have chosen for Madeline. I'm beginning to think it's a miracle you got those plane tickets to Kiev. Thank goodness Boris is seeing to the car—or I don't know _what_ I'd do."

Having finished berating Pat, Walter smiled primly and turned back to the girl, rubbing his fleshy hands together. "What do you think?" He leered to her, reaching across the counter, trying to caress her manicured hand. "Tulips or roses?" The florist-actress hastily pulled her hand back and rubbed it on her thigh. Walter's tone became less jovial. "Never mind—you're a little gold digger." He intoned, appraising her knowingly. "You'd take the roses any day because they cost more."

The florist-actress started to turn in an effort to flounce off, but Walter's hand reached out, suddenly swift, catching her wrist. "You're not going anywhere, darling." He said. Her eyes went wide and she looked to Pat, begging. Patrick ignored her.

"Tulips," continued Walter, still intent on his flower lecture "are a bit more unusual, but then perhaps not. They were Lord Harry's signature piece. Not that many know that these days." He sighed.

Pat rolled his eyes. He was a relatively new recruit and supposed to be deferential, but for Christ's sake, Walter kept going on and on about all the famous people he'd ever met. The story about Al Capone at the baseball game was bad enough—but the vampire stories were even worse. Pat had never been one for history and the thing was—Walter only ever talked about those who were dead or "real dead". Pathetic really—trying to rub his age in. Pat didn't see the fascination or the need. This was America, dam it and who gave a shit if some English guy had looked cross-eyed at Walter back in the day? He only put up with Walter because the older vampire controlled LA.

"Well," prattled Walter. "I'd hate to be gauche so roses it is. Two dozen, long stem, blood red."

"Let go of my hand." She said.

"But then you'll run." Smiled Walter. "And I can't have that. Now fill out the form."

Once she'd scrawled Walter's order out, she asked, in a failed attempt at nonchalance, if she could go. Walter pretended to ponder this for a moment before replying. "I don't think so."

Her eyes shot to Pat again. Walter laughed. "Don't look to him sweetheart." He said. "What did he say? Actor? Invited you to _Drai's_? I can guess. Well," his eyes narrowed. "It wasn't his place. Keeping such a delicacy for himself." He snapped her wrist casually when she tried to pull away, breaking it.

Pat glowered. There went Walter, spoiling all his hard work. He'd be lucky to get a taste of the girl once Walter was done with her—assuming there was anything left of her. He toyed with his aviators distastefully.

The girl, meanwhile, screamed hysterically in pain and fright. "Shshshsh." Tutted Walter, stroking her face as if she were a pet cat. "Just relax." He smiled, staring into her eyes. Her screams quieted to a whimper. The girl tamed, Walter's gaze turned to Pat. Feeling Walter's glare upon him, Pat uncurled himself from hunching over the counter with his aviators and stood up, throwing his broad shoulders back.

The florist-actress began to hiccup noisily; tears ran down her face. Pat eyed her disdainfully—she wasn't a pretty crier, her mascara was running down a now red face that clashed with her more coppery hair. "Well Patrick, " said Walter acerbically, "Any day now would be fine."

Pat sighed and looked to heaven. He swung his body idly over the counter and collected the girl's wrist from Walter, roughly forcing her hands behind her back—a movement that elicited a small pained cry. Backing up against the wall, Pat squatted—bringing the florist-actress's throat to Walter's level. He forced her head back, cutting off her circulation so she couldn't scream. Bruises spread over her pale skin; she struggled to breathe. Walter let himself in through the counter door, licking his fat lips. Pat turned his head to the side in distaste—yet another t-shirt would be sacrificed to Walter's messy eating. He bit his lip as the blood splatters hit his face and Walter's hands, gripping the shelves behind him, pinned him in behind the swiftly dying girl.


	4. Chapter 4 - Footsteps

**So This was supposed to be the chapter before I brought in our trio, but alas... I still have a lot of explaining/setting up to do and realized this chapter would run forever so I decided to publish what I've got and finish it up later in another chapter...**

**I swear - I'll get to Hal, Tom, and Alex eventually! :)**

**As always, I own no product referenced below. And definitely not the wonderful Being Human.**

**Thanks to all my readers and MancVamp for her review - please people, let me know what you think. :) It really cheers me up and inspires me to keep writing this!**

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~Chapter 4

There was a knock on a wall and footsteps—vampires, one, two, three, no, four of them by the smell of it. Vampires entering presumptively because they could, for once. They always felt smug when they could do that—she could practically feel the satisfaction in Walter's voice as he drawled theatrically "Bryn daaaarhling."

Bryn slowly tucked her cross away, turned, and rose up to greet the intruders. At just over six feet, she was unnaturally tall—especially for a woman. Bryn knew this. And she knew it made an impression; people tended to find her intimidating. Not only was she tall, she was supremely fit: shoulders too broad to be ladylike, lean and toned within an inch of her life (and her life _did_ depend on it).

Walter, who was a good five inches shorter then Bryn, smiled rather gingerly as she sauntered up to him. He did not care to be reminded of the height difference. He held out the long stem red roses in his arms towards her like he was brandishing a weapon.

_What did he want?_ Bryn was in no mood to try to decipher a pushy vampire's needs. The wrong demanding vampire, as it happened. _Where was Richard?_ _Or Lovell? What had happened to make Walter come? Something was up._ Bryn felt her neck gingerly—it was still sore from last night's fight. All she wanted to do was sleep. But then you didn't get very far in life when you gave in to your weaker cravings. And she needed to be fully alert; Walter's presence was proof enough of that.

"Another triumph." Sighed Walter. The fat vampire was as melodramatic as ever. He pressed his free hand to his heart, turning his head to the side and looking up at her with an air of infinite ecstasy. One of his bodyguards—a handsomely tanned and proudly muscular blond—glowered. The other bodyguard, who had survived Walter long enough to recognize his superior's eccentricities, merely stared into the distance.

"Walter." Smiled Bryn, eyebrows dancing. "What a pleasant surprise."

Seeing Walter may have been a surprise, but it was not a pleasant one. Bryn knew the vampire— she knew a lot of vampires. Walter had backed the pack from the early days; as head of the Los Angeles vampire coven there was no getting around him. He'd been—amused—but had lamented on the lack of bloodshed in the matches. According to Walter, their fights were certainly novel—very enlightening. But so déclassé. Like Nascar—opiate for the masses. What had happened to real dogfights? But it was a brave new world, werewolves were expensive and apt to be troublesome, and if Bryn had an idea for extending the money that could be got out of the fighting animals, so be it. He'd also tried to stiff them their fee once, which had resulted in a tussle and a dead vampire before their understanding had been reaffirmed.

Walter had always been somewhat of a fan, occasionally attending their matches and sending the odd congratulatory note. But the congratulatory notes were always vaguely dismissive—the underlying hint was that they could do so much better than this. It was annoying, particularly when he showed up unannounced and with none of the regular vampires in sight.

_Who was she supposed to hand the money over to if no one came? They couldn't hang around Kiev forever, it courted danger and the possibility of "dognapping" increased the longer they stayed in an area—especially after a match._

"Brynhild."Being a thoughtful vampire, Walter would throw her stage name in. To remind her of her place, she supposed.

He shook his head and held out the blood roses out before snatching them back. "I thought you had retired." The tone was teasing, accusational—and a pointed question.

"If I didn't turn up in the ring every so often you might begin to question my suitability." Her voice was terser than she intended, but she couldn't help it. Seeing Walter in that unfortunate double-breasted pinstripe suit, simpering away while he toyed with the idea of how much trouble to try for—it set her teeth on edge. The only way Walter could have been any more massive was if he had thrown some horizontal stripes into his wardrobe.

"Had I known you were in the ring, I might have come." Walter continued. "As it is, I hear you had a little competition. Isn't that so Jim?"

The fourth vampire rounded the corner and leaned negligently against the wall. "The bitch lacked the usual….control…." He said and took out a cigarette. His light blue eyes gleamed.

"Oh dear." Walter sucked in, contorting his face. "We can't have that! Dogs need to know their place—I thought that was the whole point of your—endeavor—my dear."

Bryn knew she was rising to the bait, but anger got the better of her. _No Richard to collect the money, Walter turning up, and now Jim!_ _Why hadn't she noticed Jim last night? Why hadn't she smelled_ _him just now, recognized his scent? And why hadn't Rob told her he'd been there? Because Rob knew what her reaction to Jim would be and he'd wanted her controlled in the match._ It felt like she was losing it.

"Walter," she smiled through her teeth, pointedly ignoring Jim. "I'm touched. I know you're just dying to see me rip someone's head off, but this is a waste of time. I provide a valuable service and we pay our bills."

"Speaking of bills…"

A tingling sensation gripped Bryn, a prickling of the nerves that ran up her spine. She braced herself. "Yes?" She asked, though her mind was in turmoil. It had been a good seven years, but she knew the footsteps of doom when she heard them.


	5. Chapter 5 - Negotiations

**Sorry for the wait everybody - real life has been hectic this last couple of weeks with a family reunion and my grandfather in the hospital (he's alright though - false alarm).**

**As usual, any products mentioned and the wonderful Being Human do not belong to me.**

**I apologize for Walter - he's a nasty vampire and his views are not my own.**

**Thanks to everyone for the reviews - they mean a lot to me! :) And a special shout out to Spazzlepadazzle and Blackwolfdragontv for following and to Amcinla for adding this to favorites.**

**Hope you all enjoy! :)**

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~Chapter 5

"We want death matches." Said Walter airily. He amended the statement. "Well _actually_ we just want dog fights again. None of this namby-pamby no killing cage matches stuff."

"I don't think so." Bryn declared, and her tone was one that brooked no argument—smooth and even. "We don't kill."

"That's what you say." Rebutted Walter.

The sorrow of the world was in Bryn's eyes. She blinked, forcing back the memories that strove to rush forward, flooding her brain with indelible images only just suppressed.

Walter smirked knowingly. "Anyways," he continued, "that policy will have to change."

_Think_. Bryn knew that there was something here she didn't know—some piece of the puzzle she was missing. Sure, Werewolf Wrestling wasn't the phenomenal success it had been three, four years ago. But they still made good money. It was a win-win situation; the vampires got their fights, her pack avoided bloodshed—for the most part. The vampire leaders got more revenue from betting and old dogfight champions didn't have to be "put down" or retired to guard dog status when they started winning too consistently.

"And _don't_ try to renegotiate." Emphasized Walter, glaring at her significantly. "I mean," he prattled on "you've had a good run—former champions of the dog fights, facing each other in—what did you call it, Patrick?"

"Pro wrestling style matches." Muttered Patrick.

"Ah yes." Said Walter, launching into a monologue. "Professional wrestling! So gauche and yet so exhilarating—I confess that _I've_ never seen the appeal, but then we can't _all_ have class can we?" He said, taking a moment to glance meaningfully at his henchmen and looking accusingly at Bryn—blaming her for the fallen standards in vampire entertainment.

The blond underling of Walter's was radiating disgruntled feelings. He sulkily folded his arms over his chest and frowned. Bryn just stared back at Walter—was he really going to go into this? She just wanted him to get to the point. None of this was new to her; Walter had never been fond of Werewolf Wrestling. No, the real revelation would be what he expected of her, what he wanted to do to her. They always wanted something—vampires did—and being vampires, they inevitably got their way.

"Well," Walter droned on. "Clearly there was a market for such trash. But the thing is—Werewolf Wrestling is only as good as its contenders. And it's been seven fucking years since you've had a real fight and not some shitty circus act."

_Something was definitely up._ Walter was swearing. And Walter, as a general rule, did not swear. He withheld from such language in normal conversation to heighten its impact. Bryn had heard him swear once before— that time when he'd tried to stiff the pack's fee without success and had proceeded to stake his nearest lackey with a brief "fuck".

"Play acting at fighting only works for so long." Walter explained. "And you're old, tired news in the States. You're even old news to the Orientals. You're playing for the fucking Commies. And what happens when _they_ get tired of your shtick?"

* * *

_She'd heard it all before. Another vampire, another day—seven years earlier. Only now, it wasn't a warning; now it was the death toll. Her borrowed time was up. _

_"It won't work—it can't last." The low, velvet British voice that seethed with an underlying anger. "The idea is only as good as the dogs you get. You've found a nice group of 'real animals' to join with you—the list of champions is most impressive. But you're going to have to fight again; the title of 'champion' will only go so far—it has to be current."_

_ "I'll find more!" She'd taunted, young and desperately determined. "It's not as if you guys treat our kind well. A lot of fighting dogs want out, and I'm providing a way!"_

_ "Our kind?" He scoffed. "You believe a kind word, a kind deed will erase all you've done against your kind? You may be one of them, but trust me, you are not of them."_

_ "I know that." She'd growled. She knew—even then—that complete acceptance wasn't going to happen. But she had hated him for referencing the past._

_ He had looked at her shrewdly. "You'll go back." He said knowingly. "It's in your blood—you're a fighter." And he'd walked out of the café with ease and the aura of unshakable certainty—washing his hands of her._

_ And as angry as she had made herself, as much as she had strived to prove him wrong (which was the reason she had ever agreed to let Rob help the underground werewolf movement), she had always known deep down that Jim was right._

* * *

And this conviction that she had had, all those years ago—a presentiment she had tried to forget—was back now with a vengeance. _Who had she been kidding? Only herself. And now, her pack. _Bryn reluctantly turned her attention back to Walter.

"Christ!" cried Walter, who had completely warmed to his theme by this point. "I thought you were god-damn retired! Luckily for your sake you're evidently _not_, but Bryn—my darling Brynhild. You need to stay fresh! You need to stay relevant! Living in 'Frisco, under the eye of that ghastly Madeline— that's understandably softened you. No wonder you're down to exhibiting in a place like _this_. Madeline wasn't even fit to be called a vampire, much less the head of a city coven. But then the San Francisco coven always used to be so liberal, so _commune-like_ in its views."

"Used to be?" said Bryn, in a tone of mock surprise.

"Why yes!" said Walter brightly. "You didn't get the news? Well—of course you wouldn't have. You were—ahem—otherwise engaged last night." He leered. "I _am_ surprised, though, that Robbie boy hasn't gotten around to telling you...Hmmm…" He put his finger to chin and looked off into space, tapping his foot.

_So that was it. _San Francisco was gone—evidently annexed by Walter_. No wonder neither Richard nor Lovell had come to collect the 'protection' fee; they were probably dust, along with most of the Bay Area vampire population. The vampire coven there had never been large; it was a collection of eclectic vampires who wanted to live quietly and with minimal fuss and cover-ups._ Bryn felt sick and suddenly her head ached. Finally knowing what trouble Walter had been up to offered her no relief.

"So," said Walter, in a halo of victory and smug certainty, "are you ready now to take your little pack back to Los Angeles with me?"

She had to act and act fast. So Bryn smiled her brightest smiled and her eyes shone; the effect was rather alarming—like the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood trying to play the helpless grandmother and the malice instead of innocence shinning through.

"I'm afraid not." She said mournfully. "You see, I already have an agreement with Jim."


	6. Chapter 6 - Predictability

**Hello all! Sorry it's been so long since you've had an update, but I'm currently in New Zealand on vacation/holiday.**

**As usual, I own nothing - especially the wonderful Being Human- and thank you for all the reviews and follows. It means a lot. :)**

**Finally, if anyone knows Spanish - I apologize. I know none, and yet have a few werewolves of South American origin. So if/when I make mistakes, please do correct me. Because I used google translate... (quisquilloso, btw, is supposed to mean "touchy" - but then I know nothing so yeah...)**

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~Chapter 6

"Agreement with Jim?" asked Rob, falling in beside Bryn as she walked back—Jim, Walter, and Walter's assorted vampires finally having left to take their haggling to a more comfortable location.

Rob's voice was as smooth as ever, but Bryn felt the underlying astonishment, the curiosity. _Clearly that was not the outcome Rob had predicted—which was understandable, given her past with Jim._ "You,"— he emphasized the pronoun—"have an agreement with Jim? How long have you been keeping quiet about that?"

"Oh—not long at all." She shot back. "When it happened, you heard about it."

"Don't joke around." Rob's voice became low. "You've just sold the entire operation—which includes us—to a vampire. To Jim." He emphasized.

"You've got a conference waiting for me." Bryn said dryly. _Of course Rob would hold a conference—they were his bread and butter, an unfortunate relic of his days as a hotshot investment banker who'd been climbing the corporate ladder. _

Rob made no attempt to deny it, confirming Bryn's suspicions. He would have the remainder of what Lindsey had dubbed 'The Big Five' assembled: Tim and Caesar, the two oldest werewolves, and Gabe—for technical support. Bryn knew what came next; she was going to face the combined onslaught of Caesar and Rob, arguing that now was the perfect time to rebel and join the underground movement.

Well, those two wouldn't get away with that—not just yet. Bryn knew that some in the pack were technically members, knew that they informed on the vampires and probably had gotten some vampires killed—but she insisted on the pack as a whole having complete deniability. The pack only killed vampires when it was absolutely necessary for survival; it had been years since a pack member had been directly responsible for a vampire's final death.

_Many arguments had been had on the subject of the werewolf movement back in the early days of the pack. Bryn had emerged the victor—Werewolf Wrestling was too visible in the vampire community and as former dogfight champions, they were too well known. That hadn't stopped some of them from trying to do vigilante work on the side, but after Levi… Well, that had put a stop to the vampire hunting._

However, the past clearly wasn't going to stop Caesar from trying to get the pack to rebel and join the underground movement officially. And Rob would back him up—it was seven years later and seven years was a long time to wait.

So Bryn grudgingly resigned herself to her fate, pulled away from Rob, and strode into the back of the munitions dump, into the back room—or vault, as it were—where Tim, Gabe, and Caesar were waiting.

"They know about Jim." Murmured Rob, warning her. Oh yes they knew. The warning was superfluous, given Caesar's barely suppressed anger and the sorrow, the hurt that rolled off of Tim.

Gabe was confused. "Why Jim?" He asked in disbelief.

"What was I supposed to do? I didn't know Madeline was dead." She sighed, the tenseness of the last twenty-four hours creeping through. She didn't have the energy to deal with them, with their recriminations, with all the arguments that were about to emerge. But her state of being wasn't about to stop the backlash.

"That gives you no right to go sell us!" Caesar's dark brown eyes were a furious storm and the veins in his muscles stood out.

"And to him of all…" Came Tim, furious. He bit down on his lip. "I mean, Jesus, I thought you hated him. Didn't you start this to get away from him and his kind—away from the violence? And now you're just going to hand it all too him?"

"Would you rather I have picked Walter?" asked Bryn defensively. She glanced around the room, staring into their eyes, daring them to defy her. "Because I was faced with the option of two nicely immoral vampires—and I'm sorry, but I went with the known evil. I know what we can expect from Jim."

Here Caesar snorted and turned his back on Bryn. Tim's eyebrows went up and he said bitterly, "And you have such good decision making skills. After all, you're the one who said this Eastern European tour was a bad idea."

"I did say that." Bryn concurred. "The probability of getting dog-napped by the Russian vamps was—still is—very high. So I wanted to us to stay in SF. I thought that would be best for the pack."

"Well…." said Gabe, hesitantly and glancing up from his laptop to her with the air of one who brings bad tidings. "It's a very good thing we're here and not at Langton. The den is on the news—burned down. Arson. Given the speed and severity of the fire, chances are if we'd been home we'd be dead. And we were going to be there…" Gabe's voice trailed off.

But Bryn knew what they were thinking. _ If you'd gotten your way, there'd be no Eastern European Tour and we'd be back in San Francisco—toast. Whatever way you put it, she emerged looking like the bad guy._

"Well the tour wasn't cancelled." She snapped. "And I know that you don't like the idea of Jim, that you hate it—but what was I supposed to do? Tell both vampires 'I'm sorry, but I'd really rather not work for either of you?'— that would go over oh so well." She said sarcastically.

Then she addressed the individual dissent. ""What would you have done—run for Canada? Because they'll never look for you there?" Bryn taunted, looking to Tim, who flinched.

"Gone to underground movement?" She challenged Caesar. "You wouldn't have had time!" She spat the words out, lashing them. "We're in Ukraine—the Russian vampire clan's backyard!" Her voice, her gaze was seething. "All I knew was that home probably wasn't a possibility. And as it turns out, home isn't an option—it's gone! If any of you think that I'm happy to learn that my family's warehouse—our home—went up in flames, then you are asking for a bout in the ring. And I won't be holding back."

One by one, they all averted their gazes: first Gabe, then Tim, and lastly Caesar.

Only Rob remained aloof—but then he hadn't challenged her authority in the first place. Instead, he stepped forward into the void of cowed spirits with a calm certainty. _He'd been waiting for this moment_. _Of course he had_—_she should have seen it coming_.

"Time." Said Rob, stepping forward. "That's what we need. Time. Time and resources." Everyone was silent before him. "And we've got that now. We run—not to Canada, not to any of the usual places, where they'll look for werewolves; where they'll expect us to go. And we can't risk exposing the movement—so we won't turn to them. So why don't we take this time to investigate Barry?"

"Oh not that again." Bryn groaned.

"You have a point." Came Caesar's rich voice, agreeing with Rob._ At least some things were still predictable—like Caesar backing Rob_. "Going to the movement is not possible when things are so—quisquilloso—so wrong."

"And with Barry," said Rob, as if he were back in a board meeting selling a pitch, "we could clear up this whole Lycurious business—see what's going on. It's got me worried—it really looks like this person systematically wants to expose werewolves and it just doesn't fit the profile of any of the major vampires in the area."

"Hmm." Agreed Tim, nodding.

"So you want to run away to Barry?" asked Bryn, incredulously. "Have you considered the repercussions of just upping and leaving? Because we'll have both Walter and Jim hunting us down."

"What other alternative do we have?" asked Rob. "Or do you really want to go back to dog fighting, to the old way?" His eyes sought hers, the question piercing her soul.

_Anyway she turned, there was violence—ultimately they would never completely escape the reach of the vampires. But to deny Rob after all these years would be cruel. Besides, what on earth could they possibly find in Barry? _The action would buy them time. Perhaps the younger pack members, at the very least, might be spared. _Maybe, if she gave in to him, she could outrun the past for just a little longer—defying the doom that always followed her._

Knowing her silence to be acquiescence, Rob looked around the room and said, "So Barry it is."


	7. Chapter 7 - Solar Flare

**Please don't kill me. :)**

**I know you all thought "Barry!" but this chapter was part of the last and I cut it because it would have been a really long chapter. But I feel that this will be important later on, so I'm putting it back in and... Barry will have to wait for next chapter (which, I might add, I HAVE started writing and it focuses on Hal so you do have that to look forward to, lol).**

**As usual, Being Human does not belong to me.**

**And many thanks for the reads and especially the reviews!**

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~Chapter Seven

It was practically all gibberish to Lindsey—and she hated that. About all she could grasp was that they weren't going home. What was that thing about Barry? Where in god's name was Barry? And who, or what, was Lycurious? She felt helpless. Well, knowledge was power.

"What the hell is going on?" Lindsey demanded, slipping under Liam—also eavesdropping—deftly and forcing her way into the conference. Her eyes wandered around the room, taking in Rob's triumphant posture, the tired and careworn look on Bryn's face, the simmering excitement in Caesar's eyes, Gabe's hands nervously pushing his hipster glasses up his long nose, and Tim's crinkled—and therefore worried—forehead.

"Out." Said Rob, pointing to the door.

Lindsey crossed her arms under her chest and spread her legs out, planting herself to the floor. "No fucking way." She glared. "Shit just happened—any dumb-ass can see that! From what I gathered, we don't have a home to go home to. We deserve to know what happened."

"The plans aren't finalized." Said Bryn.

"Well we sure as hell deserve a say in this!"

"Language…." Warned Rob with a pained expression. "Language!"

Lindsey bit her bottom lip and considered whether or not it was worth cussing Rob out. But however tantalizing giving away to her feelings was, she knew that indulging in them would only get her removed from the room. And she wasn't about to give ground. So she bit her lip harder, until the warm blood started to fill her mouth.

Rob sighed, but conceded to her. "You're right Lindsey. The pack does deserve to hear this. How we're going to Barry." He said.

This surprised Lindsey. Where were their convictions? Why wouldn't they stand up and fight? They were werewolves; damn it, and they were a pack. And yet every one seemed determined to flee. They'd just give up their home, their work—what was the use of being a werewolf? What was the point of all the senior pack member's combined work if they were just going to give it all up to avoid confrontation?

"You might as well come in Liam." Said Bryn. Liam stuck his head in sheepishly and grinned.

Rob rolled his eyes and said, "Go round up the pack."

"Alright…. Said Liam, and removing his head, he turned and yelled through his hands. "Meeting time everybody! Hup, hup!" He then let out a few shrill whistles.

Gradually the rest of the pack—and their handlers—tumbled in, joining her, the 'Big Five', and Liam. Ryan came in first at an easy jog; as a former med student he knew how to move at a smart, self-important clip. Lindsey glared at him—his earlier comments still rankled. Jamal, sauntering in behind Ryan caught the last of her glare and looked at her with a tilted head and a raised eyebrow that said "Really?"

Cole, evidently deciding that trying to teleport was not worth the extended time and effort such tricks cost him, walked in next with his broad shoulders leading the way. He was not a particularly talented ghost.

Milek and Natalia came in together; Milek with a glower that defied any attempts at conversation while Natalia clung to his impossibly buff arm and whispered soothingly in Russian. Milek knew English well enough, but he had a thick accent and rarely obliged anyone by speaking unless he deemed the conversation profitable. Natalia may have come from Lithuania, but years of TV watching and practice had reduced her accent to a charming, if barely noticeable lilt.

Finally, Tio stumbled in—yawning uproariously, running his hands through his black hair, and blinking huge brown eyes furiously. "I'm sorreeee." The young Bolivian werewolf yawned. He yawned again and then practically collapsed to a sitting position on the floor. Gabe, evidently finding Tio's yawn catching, also indulged in one. This set off Natalia, who cried "Mateo!" and swatted a perfectly manicured hand in Tio's general direction. Tio just grinned.

"Are we done yet?" asked Rob, somewhat acerbically.

"Mmmmm." Nodded Tio with a contented smile.

"Good." Said Rob, and wasting no time, repeated his refrain of going to Barry to the pack.

"Whaaaattt." Drawled Jamal, nudging Liam with his elbow. "Dang!"

"¿Qué" blinked Tio—who evidently was still very tired from the transfer, having switched to his native language.

"Where is that?" came Liam's voice.

"Wales." Supplied Rob.

All of the junior pack members' facial expressions could be summed up by the single expression of 'what the fuck?'. It was definitely what Lindsey was thinking.

"Why the hell are we going to Wales?" she demanded. "Why can't we go back home?"

"The den's gone—we don't have a home any more." Said Gabe morosely, unleashing a torrent of words from those assembled.

"Silence!" Rob raised his voice slightly and yet somehow effectively shut everyone up again. "Let me explain." He continued, in his calmest, professional, and most irritating manner. "Walter took over San Francisco; he killed Madeline. Langton Street is gone; it was arson according to the news reports Gabe's found."

"Walter thinks we be in there." Said Tio, eyes wide.

"Of course." Said Bryn swiftly. "Why do you think he burned the place down? He wanted us dead, and since that didn't work he was forced to show up here."

"I get that." Lindsey replied, losing the remnants of her patience. "What I don't understand is why we're running to Wales. And why the fuck you sold us out to Jim." She glared defiantly at Bryn.

"Bryn did no such thing!" Interposed Rob. "She bought us time."

"Time for what?!" Yelled Lindsey angrily, clenching her hands. "Time to turn tail and run like hell? Time to be cowardly and run off to god-forsaken Wales? Fuck, what happened to fighting? Are the Russian vamps that scary? Bullshit—we could totally take them! I thought we were a pack!"

"Lindsey, calm down."

Fucking Rob—going after her again! "Hell no!" Lindsey stamped. "Hell no! I'm not doing anything until you answer me why in god's name we're running away to Barry. Why?" She roared.

All at once Jamal was coming towards her, his soulful eyes worried. "Shshshsh girl." He said, gently placing his hands on her shoulders, looking down at her with the deepest concern. "It's alright Linds, just give them the chance to explain."

The wrath, that surging fire flared up within her. Lindsey held her breath for a few seconds before inhaling and exhaling deeply. Her mind flashed with conflicting thoughts—to give way to her anger or to let it go. She saw nothing—the world was a blur of nothing. For a brief moment there was nothing but the bestial rage within her. Bestial rage with a faint tinge of pain.

Then she felt Jamal, rubbing her shoulders, gently massaging them. She heard his soothing voice—"Shshsh. Everything's fine." He took her chin in his brown hand, cupping it gently. "Just look at me." He murmured. "There you go. Just look at me Linds."

Lindsey looked up and tried to see him—gradually he came into focus. She felt the rage seep out of her body. The world was becoming more grounded; she could distinguish things now—like the line in the munitions shed wall, or the discarded bouquet of wilting roses tossed in the corner. She could see the shock on Tio's sleepy face. The splatters of blood slowly pooling on the concrete beneath her.

She turned her hands over to look at her palms; they were wet and dripping. Dripping with blood. Her fingers were unusually claw-like, canine even. Everyone was rooted in place, frozen, watching her.

Lindsey felt almost curiously calm—detached was the word. "I'm sorry." She said blankly. "I'm sorry."

"First aide kit, Ryan." Said Jamal.

"Yes, of course." Said Ryan, and he pushed his way out the door.

"She start to transfer?" Tio asked plaintively, before Liam silenced him with a dig in the ribs.

"Phew." Came Jamal's voice, accompanied by a wry smile. "Phew." He repeated. "That's my girl." His smile widened and hugged he her, patting her gently on the back.

When Jamal put her down from the hug, Lindsey glanced at Bryn. The other female werewolf was looking at her, slightly wary—appraising her. Lindsey's heart raced.

But then Bryn said, "There you are, Ryan. Once you're done bandaging Lindsey up, I think we can continue. I believe Rob was about to tell us all exactly why Barry is such a brilliant place for the pack to visit just now."


	8. Chapter 8 - On Death

**Sorry for the wait - but here it is! Chapter Eight and it's Hal! **

**The title of the chapter comes from a poem by Keats. I think it's very appropriate for Hal for a number of reasons.  
**

**I hope you all enjoy - please let me know what you think- and as usual Being Human does not belong to me. :)**

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~Chapter Eight

The cat—one Mr. Fluffy by name—was slowly ruining the fleeting remnants of dignity of the tawdry memorial ceremony. The ginger tom, who more than fulfilled the promise of his name, was another reminder of just how bloody hungry Hal was. The sound of Mr. Fluffy's throbbing, delicious life force wafted across the garden as the infernal grimalkin calmly licked itself—rear leg hoisted to the heavens.

What on earth had possessed him to agree to such sentimental sop in the first place? The whole ceremony was absurd from start to finish; memorial services for somebody who was already dead (and who had had a similar ritual seven years previously) and for a wailing bundle that'd never gotten around to doing anything but disrupt sleep and cause odiferous messes. Damn Victorians and their sentimentality—no one used to morn the passing of small children quite so much before they came along and decided to romanticize the grieving process.

Christ. He'd hardly even known these people. Lived with them for less than a year. And having spent five hundred or so years on this earth, they hardly appeared on his scroll of time.

Yet his weak, maudlin side had been appealed to; sentimentality had triumphed and so he—Lord Harry—found himself out of doors on this mildly sunny afternoon listening to a werewolf sniffle through an appallingly heartfelt speech. If speech it could be called. The hound was nearly incomprehensible. Hal wanted to scream.

"Annie, yer was the best friend yah could ever ask fer. Wot yah did were truly brave an' it's because of yah we're still alive an' aught." The pup sniffled. "So thanks. Yah took me in an' looked after me. Yah raised Eve—were her second Mum an' all. Yah were a won'erful person an' even though I knows yer in a better place with your mates, I still miss yah." The creature rubbed his eyes and blinked rapidly, struggled, and then pushed on.

"Eve, I don't know if yah really was the Savior of the World or so, but yah was a good baby—as I reckon. Yah didn't deserve tah die, but I reckon you're with George an' Nina—yer real Mum an' Dad—now. With Annie looking out fer you. Together again." The wolf broke down sobbing.

Hal momentarily forgot about the cat and his thirst at this; a twinge of conscience gripped him and he shuffled awkwardly at the outpouring of genuine emotion. This was what he should have been feeling. And yet he didn't—he was strangely dead.

At least the ghost looked as uncomfortable as he felt—she kept shifting her stance. Her eyes darted over to him and she nodded her head in the direction of the wolf. Hal frowned, furrowing his brows. What on earth did she expect of him?!

The girl lurched with her head in Tom's direction again—straining her long, elegant, and—sadly— lifeless neck. Was she somehow drunk? She even rolled her eyes towards the hound!

"Huh?" mouthed Hal, affronted and bewildered.

"Jaysus!" the ghost muttered rolling her eyes again and stepping forward to pat the wolf's back. Then she hugged him. While glaring at Hal.

Hal wrinkled his nose. Lord Harry did not consort with dogs. Had she really been expecting him to do that? It beggared belief. He drew himself up, staring down his long, aristocratic nose with as much affronted dignity as he could muster.

The hound sniffled and snuffled a bit more as his tears began to fall fast. Any moment now and he'd be rubbing his nose into his sleeve, the mongrel. And that really could not be born. Almost against his will, Hal found himself extending his arm to its farthest length, his freshly laundered hanky pinched between the thumb and forefinger.

Tom gratefully snatched it and blew his nose heartily. He rumpled the monogrammed handkerchief into a ball and proffered this to Hal.

"I beg your pardon!"

The dog had the temerity to look hurt. A smirk that threatened to burst into a snort of laughter was playing about the ghost's mouth. Their impudence was unpardonable.

All he wanted was to end it; one quick move and a snap of the dog's neck and it would be over. The ghost would be slightly harder, but with the disturbing events surrounding her death and her repressed emotional turmoil he'd have her gone within the week. _Yes, that was it. Kill the fucking werewolf, take a quick munch on the cat, go into town for a proper meal, and then see what would be salvaged from the mess of the Old Ones. God—that would take a lot of cleaning up._

So intent was he on this that Hal failed to notice Alex's failure to stifle a laugh as she explained to Tom that you didn't return used hankies to their owners. He did not catch Tom's bashful "Oh". He even missed Alex's "Christ! Ye monogrammed tha bloody thing?!"

It wasn't until Tom noticed the fanatic gleam in Hal's slightly darkened eyes and laid a hand gently on his friend's arm that Hal returned to the here and now.

"Get your filthy paw off me!" He blazed, pulling away with lightening quickness into a black-eyed, hissing, and fanged crouch. He would tear the world apart. Starting with _them_.

He could see the shock on their faces: the dog looked even more idiotic than normal with his mouth hanging open. The ghost's eyes were huge. Good. He grinned, revealing the lethal incisors to their fullest. Fear. Fear and trembling. At long last. He could practically taste it—and it was sweeter than the freshest blood.

Something fluttered in the corner of his vision. He whipped around. _Oh please let it be the bloody cat_, he thought with glee—ready to attack.

But it was only a small white flag.

Cowards. Running up the flag of surrender. Not that that would save them. He was Lord Harry, on the eve of battle, ready to triumph.

_Eve of battle_—why was that familiar? Why the niggle of doubt, that feeling that something was horribly wrong? This was his moment of glory, his resurrection. He gnashed his teeth in furry. _That flag was fucking small_. Was that really the best they could come up with? He eyed it narrowly.

The fabric was curiously thick. And the flag tapered towards the center. It fluttered, upside-down, on a line—rather forlornly. He cocked his head to the side. The stitching was remarkably even and fine.

And then Hal remembered.

Eve—it was one of Eve's nappies. One that Annie must have forgotten to take off the clothesline. Those were his stitches—he'd made that nappy when the store-bought (or rather, stolen courtesy of Tom) ones had given Eve a terrible rash.

* * *

_Annie had been distraught._ _"Five different brands of nappies Hal! Five! And it still won't go away!" She'd fluttered her hands in a fanning motion, as if to calm herself. But it was a pointless gesture. Her breathing came in puffs._

_ "I don't know what to do!" she'd said—frantic, almost maniac. There were the beginnings of tears in her eyes. "I've tried all the ointments and creams it's still there! And she's so unhappy—she looks at me with those beautiful blue eyes as if to say 'Why can't you make this better?' Oh god Hal, I'm a horrible Mum. If Nina were here…" Her voice trailed off, only to come back stronger with her next pronouncement. "Because we __**cannot **__have the doctor round here again. Not after last time."_

_ "No." He'd agreed fervently (remembering the horrendous thing Annie had forced him to wear and the cringe-worthy pantomime with Tom). "We can't."_

_ "I mean—god—the man died!"_

_ There was that too._

_ "We can't risk the questions. But what if it's an allergy?!" _

_ "Why don't you use cloth?"_

_ Annie's face was not amused—she wrinkled it up as if she'd tasted something foul. "Cloth nappies? Hal!"_

_ "What?! It's what the world's used!"_

_ "Since the dawn of time? Well, you would know!" Annie scoffed. "We're in the twenty-first century now, Hal." She emphasized his name—rather derisively. "And Eve's a very special baby. Eve deserves the best. And cloth nappies are __**definitely**__ not that!" Her sideways glance of horror would have fit perfectly on the face of any haughty regency lady._

_ Hal took a deep breath. "What do we have to lose?" He asked. " We can't send for the doctor, as you just said. And I can make them!" Seeing that she was still unconvinced, he added "And if you want something special, I'll embroider them."_

_ Annie harrumphed. But she was desperate and he could tell from her eyes that she was intrigued. The idea of the embroidery appealed to her—he could practically hear her thinking 'how many babies have hand-embroidered nappies?' and calculating the number. He knew he had her when she finally said "And besides—it'd be quite environmentally friendly. Which would be __**rather **__appropriate—would it not? —For the Savior of the world?" She smiled her pleased, self-satisfied smile as her brown eyes twinkled mischievously. _

_ His own smile had been a forced one as he said with feigned enthusiasm "I'll get started right away then."_

* * *

Oh god. Annie. Annie and Eve. Gone—two of his anchors in this never-ending world. And look at him; he couldn't even care about their memorial service for the blood lust.

His shoulders slumped forward as the enormity of what he had been about to hit him. _So this is how you would repay them?_ Hal gave a sobbing laugh. _Yes, tearing apart the world Annie had worked so hard to save—the world Eve had been sacrificed for—that was an apt memorial!_ His whole body shook.

A thousand thoughts, a thousand plans flew through his mind. But the image of Annie, smiling like the sun as she rocked Eve back and forth in her arms refused to dislodge itself from his brain.

Slowly Hal turned back to face the others—head hanging down, his face wet with tears. "I'm sorry." He sobbed brokenly. "I'm so, so very sorry."


	9. Chapter 9 - Purpose

**Sorry this has been so long, but if it's any consolation the finale inspired me to continue this! While this story is now AU, I have borrowed background details on the Trinity for this story. **

**As always, please feel free to leave a review and do let me know if I make any mistakes with accents/word choices! :)**

**Finally, the wonderful, incomparable Being Human does not belong to me. **

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~Chapter Nine

Tom looked at Hal. The vampire was right sad an' all. He'd never seen Hal in such a state afore. He was cryin'. Goin' on about how he'd failed Annie an' Eve. How he should've died instead of them. Well, he had a point, right enough. It weren't Annie an' Eve who should 'ave died. It should'ave been him. Tom McNair. He'd tried to save an' protect that baby an' all he'd gotten done was seeing her dead. Blown to bits an' all.

Why'd he always manage to get out alive an' aught? His real parents. His dad. Nina an' George. An' now Eve. An' Annie (even if she were dead an' all tah begin with). The tears wouldn't stop. He rubbed his eyes. Not to stop the tears. The tears were proper. He was still alive an' all. His friends, his family—dead. That weren't _right_.

Mad. He were mad a' himself. That mad that made him want tah hit somethin'. To bang his head against the wall. To run an' run an' run until he couldn't breathe no more. That'd make the pain go away. An' he could forget the feelin' he weren't whole for a might longer.

He'd only managed tah cope with losing McNair because he knew George an' Nina were out there. The pack. A new family—in a lovely big house with all 'em empty rooms. An' there were vampires tah kill. For killin' Nina. An' then George had died. But he'd left Tom Eve tah protect. Made him promise. An' now he'd failed that promise. 'Cause Eve was dead.

Tom wished Allison were here. She'd know what to do. The nice things to say for the service. She'd give a beautiful speech—one fittin' for baby Eve an' Annie. Better than his own words. He'd never been one for fancy talkin'. Actions and the like were more his thing. What he was good at. If Allison had been here she would have known jest what tah say. He'd thought about calling her or somethin'. But her parents. An' he didn't want to be dragging her back into this life. She were a brilliant girl. Meant to be a barrister. Barristers didn't go with the likes of him. Mr. Cutler had taught him that. He weren't fit for a posh life. What was he fit for?

He'd failed them. All he could think of was their faces. Eve. Annie. George. McNair. Nina. McNair. Annie. George. Eve. The names. Over an' over. All dead. All gone. With him left. What was he still here for?

Then he saw Hal. A bloodsucker, a dirty vampire. Or so McNair would've said. But he looked so lost. Cryin' over there—sobbing fit tah break yer heart. Fighting with the death of his friends too. An' fighting the blood. Tom's heart sank. He'd failed Hal too. Never should'ave let him go to them vampires alone. There'd be blood. How was he meant tah stay clean? Tom—well, he'd been so worried an' all about Eve he clean forgot about Hal. An' the vampire needed help.

Maybe that was why Tom McNair was still around. Hal. Somebody needed tah look after the daft vampire. Look at him. Total wreck, he was. Hal may have gone a bit mad back there, but he was sorry. Anyone could see that.

So Tom went up to his friend. "Hal?" He asked.

"Jesus Tom—I'm so sorry! Annie and Eve don't deserve this; they should be alive and here I am, ruining their memorial service."

"Nahhhhh. You've done nothing of tha sort!" Tom blustered. But McNair'd raised him not tah lie. And Hal clearly weren't buying his talk. So he cringed and said "Well maybe yah did a bit." Hal's face fell. Tom felt horrible, mean. He gathered up his biggest smile and said brightly "But ye're sorry now! That's whot matters! Right Alex?"

Both Hal and Alex were looking at him like he was mental. Or somethin'. Didn't they believe yah could change? Or were they all stuck? Stuck in this life? Vampires, ghosts, an' werewolves. Not proper humans. Like Mr. Cutler had said?

Nah. It couldn't be so. Hal, he jest needed help. Alex too. They'd find her unfinished business an' then she'd go. Pass over. All peaceful like. He'd do it. He, Tom McNair, would see it done. His dad would be proud of him, helping the ladies and all. Being nice and polite. He'd be less pleased about the bloody vampire. But then McNair hadn't killed Mr. Mitchell or aught. An' unlike Mr. Mitchell, Hal hadn't killed nobody yet. Hal jest needed to stay that way…..


End file.
